President Bush's 'special relationship' with Tony Blair received a mortal blow today

George Bush Slams Tony Blair
By our man in the line of fire,
Derek Tree

President Bush's 'special relationship' with
his staunchest ally, Tony Blair, received a mortal blow today when he
slammed the British Prime Minister after crack British troops
'accidentally' attacked a force of 10,000 US marines in northern Iraq

The US troops—personally authorised by President
George W Bush to secure the release of foreign hostages—or possibly
two senior Halliburton executives who were engaged in fitting out Fallujah's
first Las Vegas style casino, were attacked without warning earlier
today by Scottish squaddies under the command of maverick Black Watch
commander, Lt-Col Sir Hamish MacDuff.

Sources not at all close to George W Bush, but who are not averse to
leaking information in exchange for enormous wodges of untraceable cash,
told utterpants
that the President has threatened to 'nuke Blair's ass' and complained
that: 'you've screwed with me for the last time, you dumb fuck!'

In a secret email intercepted by Al Jizz—the impartial
Saudi Arabian News agency—President Bush is alleged to have
told Dick Cheney:
"So yeah, on the record, Prime Minister Tony Blair is an, uh, admirable,
loyal ally. Off the record, that shit stirring pantywaist tried to muscle
in on my action. I mean, Jesus H Christ, who the hell does that boy
think is running the world? I don't pay him to take initiatory actions;
I pay him to kiss my omnipotent ass and supply enough monkeys to take
the heat off my brave boys while their sisters beat the shit out of
those Islamiac fundamentaries. If it wasn't for me that tea-swilling
liberatorial faggot would be cowering under his bed at night while his
fat bitch of a wife
sucked on Saddam's dick."

Mr Bush then called for the resignation of British Defence Minister
Geoff Hoon, a blanket ban on the import of Tea and the immediate return of the Diebold voting machines he sent Mr
Blair to secure his re-election during the 2005 British
General Election.

The British troops, led by the 1st Battalion The Black Watch, moved
into position just south of a force of US marines massed outside Fallujah,
early yesterday evening. The area around the town has seen relentless
attacks on US fast food outlets as well as kidnappings and murders of
US sex tourists—with the possible exception of Exxon executives,
who have been strangely immune from attack. Soon after dawn two US helicopter
gunships opened up on what were thought to be a band of marauding Iraqis
scavenging for chocolate-based
snacks, but were later revealed to have been a 350-strong detachment
of Scotland's finest regiment led by maverick Black Watch commander,
Lt-Col Sir Hamish MacDuff.

The marines met fierce opposition from what one shaken US soldier described
as 'A bunch of homicidal maniacs in striped dresses wielding fucking
great swords' and a helpful British journalist pointed out were: 'kilts'
and 'claymores'—a traditional, two-handed Scottish broadsword
capable of slicing a man in two in less time than it takes a man who
has been sliced in two to scream: 'SHEET! Some limey bastard's sliced me
in two!'

Tony Blair
admitted this morning that 'some British troops might have accidentally
caused a little collateral damage' during the assault on Fallujah, flatly
contradicting assurances from his Defence Secretary that the Black Watch
were still in their barracks south of Baghdad watching Fahrenheit
9/11—or possibly Texan
Cheerleaders Cumfest Action—Part three.

His admission came as Utterpants
spoke via our bluetooth satellite-uplink to the flamboyant Scottish
commander of the 850-strong Black Watch at his headquarters in a converted
brothel, in which Saddam Hussein is said to have had 'explosive sex'
with an inflatable doll resembling Congolese Rice.

We began by asking Lt-Col Sir Hamish MacDuff why he had deliberately
attacked the US marines.
"Mmphm! Why not?" grunted the soldier. "The cowardly
bastards started it by strafing my lads with those computer-guided whizzy-whirly
things."
"Helicopter gunships?" we prompted.
"Aye, they're the wee chaps," retorted Sir Hamish with a derisory
snort. "Bloody awful noisy buggers; never go where you point 'em;
is it any wonder the Americans keep shootin' their own bally troops?"

"You don't have any helicopter gunships?" we asked.
"Helicopter gunships?" shouted Sir Hamish derisively; his
eyebrows tilted at an alarming angle. "What do you think Iraq is,
Texas?
Only girls fight with helicopter gunships. We fight with claymores
and Scottish spunk, sir!"
"So you attacked the Americans with—with swords?"
we asked incredulously.
"Verra BIG, pointed, sharp swords, ye ken? There's nothing
like a taste of Scottish steel to loosen the sphincter of a trigger-happy
cowboy."
"Quite literally, in some cases, from what we've heard," we
commented. "Twenty-eight Americans are in hospital with chronic
diarrhoea and threatening to 'nuke your ass."
"You dinna say?" chortled the have-a-go Colonel. "That
won't help the limp-wristed girl's blouses. It would take a dyslexic
Texan megalomaniac in a crumpled lounge suit to get the better of a
homicidal Scotsman in a kilt, baaaah!"

"Aren't you concerned that your unprovoked attack may force the
Prime Minister
to resign?" we asked.
"Baah!" bellowed the old warhorse. "A man may fight for
many things, his country, his friends, his principles, the moistness
between the thighs of his mistress. But personally I'd bugger my own
father to kick Tony's arse out of office!"
"We think you may very have achieved that," we replied.
"I should bloody well hope so!" retorted Sir Hamish triumphantly.
"Scotland has the finest engineers, the finest army and the finest
prostitutes in the world. And who do we have for Prime Minister?
A namby-pamby English knob-sucker taking it up the bottom from a dyslexic
megalomaniac with a brain the size of a weasel's wedding tackle. The
sooner that gutless tosser is out of office the sooner I can kick the
Sassenachs out of Scotland and restore the rightful King, baah!"

"Er...isn't it a bit late for that?" we asked dubiously.
"Nonsense!" bristled the military martinet. "His Majesty
Prince James XIV is as fit as a flea and only awaiting my command to
invade England with the flotilla of pedaloes he has been secretly assembling
in Swizerland!"

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